


Uneasy Lies The Head

by Lanceritter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (mostly), Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Pack Feels, Season 6B, and more fics about them, gratuitous handholding, these two deserve the goddamn world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-30 08:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12104676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lanceritter/pseuds/Lanceritter
Summary: Beacon Hills is drowning in chaos and fear, and Scott McCall must consider the realities of war, the transformation of his friends and loved ones into soldiers, and the promise of a brighter future. Three part coda fic covering events during, in between, and after 6x15, 6x16 and 6x17, Scott-centric, heavy on the Scott/Malia and the McCall Pack feels.





	1. Eve Of The War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I felt the fandom was lacking in a) Scott-centric fics, b) Scott/Malia fics, and c) 6b coda fics, so here we are. This is a three part fic covering 6x15, 6x16 and 6x17 in each part, retelling some scenes but mostly new material augmenting and filling in the gaps. Expect introspection on current events and the war to come with lots of romantic and angsty stuff in between, along with some minor artistic liberties taken with canon - the last scene of this chapter specifically does this with regards to the Hale house, because I couldn't resist. Hope you enjoy!

_War._ The word beat like a drum in his veins.

He'd known it would come to war, how could he not? It had been building for weeks now, drawn to Beacon Hills like a supernatural being unto itself, formed of whispers in the night and blood in the air, strengthened by the unknown chaos and fear of a nightmare beyond comprehension, unleashed from shackles of nonexistence not even the Wild Hunt could contain it with. The creature terrorising their town, leaving dead wolves and rats and skinless corpses in its wake, had in turn given birth to a new terror, armed with shotguns and rifles, the spectre of Gerard Argent looming over them. And on this night, a night of Hunters camped outside the Sheriff's station with bloodlust in their eyes, Scott saw for the first time what war truly looked like. And while he'd known it would come to this, now he _knew_.

And so, when his father had emerged from behind the barricade, waved his FBI badge and taken Tamora Monroe aside to cut a deal, Scott figured out pretty quickly what would happen next. Jiang and Tierney, the last two survivors of Satomi's butchered pack, would be remanded safely to FBI custody, Monroe would disband her lynch mob and allow it, and Scott and his pack would leave. Not just the station, but Beacon Hills. They would leave that very night. Monroe might've been ruled by her fear, but she wasn't stupid; the authority of the FBI as a national agency wasn't enough to diminish the sickly sweet smile on her face, but the grip on her shotgun would, and did, slacken. 

Scott wasn't stupid either - he knew the only reason Rafael McCall would dare much such a deal was to protect him. Not his friends, not the last members of Satomi's pack, just him. His father was no doubt of the opinion that if Scott went to college, he would cease to be a werewolf, an Alpha, the protector of Beacon Hills. Scott supposed he couldn't blame him for that; for a while there, he'd dared to think the same. Maybe the dream would come true one day soon, but for now, Beacon Hills needed him. Already, lost and desperate werewolves were flocking from all over to find him, seeking sanctuary, a pack, an end to the fear, drawn by the legend of Scott McCall, he who survived an Alpha Pack, defeated the Beast of Gevaudan, and driven off the Wild Hunt. It would be a battle unlike any they had fought. It would be a war.

"Give me a minute," Scott told his father. "I'll convince them it's the right call."

They had the Sheriff's office to themselves, while the rest of the station stood with hands on their holsters and stared down the Hunters through the windows, the overwhelming vortex of fear that had led two of their own to suicide begging them to spill blood rather than stayed trapped within its wake. Agent McCall had done most of the talking, convincing them it was the right call, that Jiang and Tierney were not their responsibility, that they were too young to be involved in standoffs with vigilantes, and so on. The group had taken it silently, waiting for Scott to be the one to protest. He had not, and now the silence took on an anticipation fit to burst, but, once more, they waited. Only after Scott's father had left, nodding approvingly at his son's seeming acquiesce as he went, and the Sheriff followed, casting a doubting look over them, did they begin.

Liam went first. "We can't just leave!"

Lydia was calmer, logical. "There's no guarantee they won't come after us anyway. And that _thing_ is still out there, making it worse."

Malia, as always, was more direct. "Liam's right, it's a stupid deal. We're not taking it." She glanced up at Scott, arms crossed. "Your dad's negotiation skills suck."

He almost laughed. "Of course we're not really taking it," he said, feeling a curious calm wash over him. "But it's the only way we walk out of here without a fight, and it's the best solution for Jiang and Tierney. And besides… Everyone only needs to _think_ we've left town."

"What do you mean?" asked Liam.

This time he allowed himself to smile. "We're not running."

"Oh," his beta said, blinking. "That's a better plan. I like that plan."

"It'll give us a chance to regroup," agreed Lydia. "We'll go separately, then meet up somewhere safe. Somewhere they won't look." 

"We'll need a whole lotta places they won't look," said Malia.

"Still going to be a fight tomorrow," said Theo, his smirk a challenge. "Not like you guys have great odds against an entire army."

Liam rolled his eyes. "Do you _ever_ have anything helpful to say?"

Theo did not. "You're all going to die."

"Then we die fighting," snapped Malia. "Scott's right, we're not running."

"You don't have to come with us," Scott told Theo. Something petulant crossed the other boy's face, reminding him all too much of the kid he'd used to be friends with a lifetime - one Theo himself had taken - ago. "Lydia's got the right idea - we'll meet up at the old Hale house tonight." He turned to the Banshee. "And you tell Quinn there's a place for her, if she wants it."

"And if she doesn't know?"

"Then that's okay. Just as long as all of us know that the second we walk out those doors, we'll have to choose."

He knew what he was asking. They did too. Their answers hung in the air, suspended by indecision, doubt, fear. Earlier in the night they had been ready to fight their way out, but this was different. Any one of them could leave and leave for good, find normal lives untainted by blood and death and war, and Scott would let them. It was up to them to decide which was the right choice, and which was the wrong one. It was up to them to decide what was worth entering into a war for.

Lydia nodded first, she who had been fighting alongside him the longest. Theo's reply was a disinterested shrug, as if even being included was an inconvenience, to which Liam muttered, _"Asshole,"_ under his breath before turning to Scott and grunting his assent.

Scott's eyes found Malia's last. It had only been hours ago she had been infected by that unknowable and all-encompassing fear, every muscle trembling, her voice breaking, her heart a parade of panic and dread. He had placed his hands on her shaking shoulders, tried to steady her, tried to be there for her like she had for him so many times now. She had wanted to leave, more than anything else in the world. A part of him couldn't help but remember how badly she had wanted to leave at the start of all this as well, to travel the world and forget about creatures of the night, to just be a normal teenager and discover the woman she could become. That same part of him wanted to let her go now, and for reasons that felt intangible and undefined, he knew he would be relieved to see her safely away yet completely lost without her. But Malia Tate had spent half her life running away, and since he'd known her, since the day he'd turned her back into a human, Scott had never known her to run from anything. It was one of the things about her he admired most, and of late the things he admired about her seemed immeasurably important.

She didn't even blink. "I'm coming with you," she said, with a certainty so utmost, a faith in him so sure, it felt as though the sun, that first thing that could not long be hidden, had broken through the clouds.

It was that conviction, hers and his pack's both, that carried him into the night, out of the station where terror had driven two deputies to take their own lives, past the hunters with the guns he knew would yet be pointed at him in the battles to come, and as he saw his pack disperse to their vehicles and into the unknown. If any of them left, it could be the last time he saw them. The thought threatened to shake him, but Malia stayed by his side throughout, and for that he was beyond grateful. No shadow seemed dark enough to fear, so long as she was standing by his.

 

////

 

"My suitcase's already in the Jeep," he said to his parents, pre-empting an argument. "I just need to get a few more things, then I'll leave."

His father followed him upstairs, more keen to further explain why his deal was the best option rather than contend with the anger of his ex-wife, who had not reacted well to his interference in events to say the least. Scott tuned him out as he made a show of stuffing leftover clothes and toiletries into his bags with equal parts resignation and indignation, focusing instead on the calm rhythm of his heart and Malia's downstairs. He could hear her rhapsodising to his mother about all the places in Paris she'd visit now the FBI was paying for her flight, speaking with so much earnest enthusiasm it saddened and heartened him at the same time.

He wasn't shocked when she eventually came upstairs, interrupting his father. If Agent McCall had any need to question her presence, or the fact she moved around the McCall house easier than a man who used to live there, he blessedly kept it to himself. "I'll be downstairs," he said, and they were alone.

Scott looked at her lingering by the doorway, and recalled the summer just passed. At least three nights a week, when he wasn't working at the clinic or as the assistant lacrosse coach, she had come over so he could help her study for summer school, and it was there in his room they had found a cozy routine. At first they'd combat her latest scholarly struggles - she grumbling, he encouraging - then end up sitting on the floor, watching whatever late night movie was on and eating candy Malia had pilfered from Coach's various secret stashes. With Lydia occupied by MIT acceptance tests and visiting Stiles half a country away, and with Mason and Corey helping Liam mourn his relationship with Hayden, Scott and Malia had each other. Some nights they talked until later than late, about dumb things like movies and cartoons from their childhood, half-remembered as if the Wild Hunt had gotten to them, and some nights they were comfortably silent, the kind of silence acquired by familiarity and the promise there was always a tomorrow for things to say.

It was this silence Scott felt as he finished packing his bag and headed for the door, and he relished in it. The silence didn't break when her hand grabbed his, but something else did. An uncertainty, a confused statement followed by a qualifier, a _"You know what I mean."_ that said more than it didn't. This was something new, something sure of itself. For a moment Scott simply marvelled at his grip in hers, watched his thumb trace over her knuckles, as soft and warm as they'd felt when he'd been bleeding out in the tunnels, these hands that had taken away his pain.

She didn't meet his gaze until she squeezed his hand, and did not need to say a word. Her eyes said it for her: _I'm with you_.

He smiled, and tipped his head. "You could've grabbed a bag," he teased.

With the slightest raise of her eyebrows, she leaned down and snatched the duffel at their feet with her free hand. Their fingers remained intertwined throughout. The grin on his face grew wider, wider still as she turned away with a small smile on her own. Out in the hallway, down the stairs and towards the arguing voices of his parents, their hands remained caught, their gaits singular, as if these past few weeks they'd been stumbling around each other like they'd just noticed the other's feet existed, but now, they were dancing. Only when his parents came into view did the dance end, but not before Malia squeezed his hand again, ever slightly, and the feeling rooted warmly in his heart even after his hand cooled.

"You got everything?" his mother asked. Her eyes darted in annoyance at her ex-husband. "You planning to escort him to the state line too?" 

For a split second it seemed his father would make an issue of it, and took a step forward. But Malia rumbled a low growl from her throat, and that step was recanted.

"Great," said Scott, and ignored his father entirely to envelop his mom in a tight hug. "I'll be okay," he whispered into her hair, and then, even quieter, "Wait for Argent to call. He'll explain." 

After the hug ended, Melissa gazed at him with questioning eyes, but nodded. "You'll call me when you get there?"

"Of course," replied Scott.

"And me," said his father.

Scott gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Sure."

Letting out a snort of amusement, Malia turned on her heel, still carrying one of his bags, and left the house without another word. Scott shot his mother a more genuine smile, and followed the werecoyote into the cloudless night. The warm light of home at their backs, they tossed the bags into the backseat of the Jeep, climbed inside, and within its confines of the car, the silence returned.

But only for a second. "I'd just about kill for a burger right now," declared Malia. "Not kill someone that didn't, like, _really_ deserve it, but the longer I go without, the more deserving everyone will look."

Chuckling, Scott stared up the Jeep. "There's this twenty-four hour diner just off the highway. I'll pay."

"Well, then I'm definitely getting some fries." Malia settled into her seat. "Maybe two burgers. And some waffles."

"Sounds good," said Scott. And, before he could stop himself, added, "It's a date."

She made a half-amused, half-startled, noise that indicated she didn't think he realised what he just said. She was right, of course, but Scott concentrated especially hard on the dashboard in front of him and tried desperately to stop the beating of his heart rather than admit that. His mouth felt very dry.

Eventually, Malia said, "Then I guess I can share some of my fries."

It was the romantic thing he'd heard in months.

 

////

 

He'd almost forgotten what it felt like, being outside Beacon Hills. It was hard to pin down, that feeling he'd carried with him for years, ever since he, Stiles and Allison had activated the Nemeton and, with it, a beacon for the supernatural, but it seemed almost like a low thrum in the corner of his ears, pulsating with the magical currents that ran beneath the town like blood cycling through a heart. Without it, the prickling on the back of his neck belonged solely to the night's cool breeze, and any nerves and anxieties were his own, soon to be replaced by the sirens's call of the Nemeton from the outside,, beguiling and captivating in a way that reminded him of looking at a painting and feeling the incessant need to comprehend it, appreciate it, be one with it. And now, confronted by that urge, he could almost picture himself years in the future, feeling it fade. He didn't know if he wanted that or not. He didn't _want_ to know if he wanted that or not. 

In the twenty-four hour diner, the hum of the fluorescent lights was familiar enough to soothe that yearning. This late at night, the blinding white interior evoked the feeling of a timeless place, far removed from concepts of war and standoffs with lynch mobs, a place where memories made lingered in the air with the smell of burnt coffee and cooking grease. There was nothing to fear in a place like this save for the possibility of health code violations, and its occupants weren't like the people back home, stranded on their island of terror. Other than them, the only customers were three bearded truckers guzzling coffee, a frazzled-looking doctor eating lunch at 1am in bloodied scrubs, and a dark-haired kid around their age wearing a brand new UC Berkeley shirt. The waitress was middle-aged but aged more by the lights and her plastered smile, and the cook had a ponytail and looked annoyed at having to part with his crossword book. Not a one of these people were whispering in fear. Not a one of them were eating the last meals on the eve of a war.

True to her word, Malia had gotten two burgers, a plate of fries and a plate of waffles, and gone to work on them with a predator's appetite. When he wasn't partaking in some of the offered fries, Scott are his burger one handed while the other scrolled through his messages.

"Liam got out," he announced. "Claimed he's going to visit Hayden for a week. And Argent just got back to me, said he'll go see my mom."

"And Lydia?" asked Malia between bites. "Bet her mom's thrilled she's going."

"Yeah." His phone buzzed, and he scanned the text. "Not Lydia, it's Mason. Corey must've talked to him, because… yeah, he's not happy. I don't like that we have to lie to him. He's as much pack as anyone."

Malia shrugged, chewing. Translation: _He'll know by tomorrow._

Scott _hmm_ 'd in agreement. "Yeah, I know." His phone buzzed again. "It's Lydia, she's on her way. That's all of them." That he was expecting, anyway. The omega, Quinn, who had only been roped into this mess by virtue of showing up at his house with a bullet hole in her head, had been given instructions just in case, and he knew Theo wouldn't bother texting to say no. _Or yes_ , he thought, but did not dwell; Theo's presence was an unanswered question he didn't much feel like pondering to excess. He placed his phone down. All that was left was the girl across from him, wolfing - or perhaps coyote'ing - down her burger, who had come with him instead of returning to her empty, haunted, family home.

"Have you talked to your dad?" he ventured.

She shrugged again. "He still thinks I'm in Paris."

A hunting trip, he remembered suddenly. Henry Tate had been gone for a month or so on a summer hunting trip with his buddies, to someplace where the hunting was good. The thought raised his arm hairs on end. It had been a good season for hunters. _I was hunted by my dad_ , Malia had said, reaching out to a common ground they shared, her way of being there for him, and Scott wondered, not for the first time, if Mr Tate knew about his daughter, about the supernatural, and if so, understood enough to not be caught up with the likes of Monroe should he return to town while it was still being strangled by fear's insidious hands. Or would he be like Scott's own father, encouraging his daughter to leave and live her life away from it all? And if she did leave, would she feel the absence of something important outside the confines of Beacon Hills, as he did?

Malia reached to nab a handful of fries, her fingers brushing briefly against his, and said with faint wistfulness, "Wonder what they taste like in France."

He grinned, just a little. "I'm not sure French fries are actually French. It's kinda like how pizza's not really Italian."

"Ugh."

Scott raised his hands in surrender. "I could be wrong?"

"No, not that." She gestured with a half-eaten fry. "Now I'm craving pizza. Good job."

"They could make us some here."

"And add that to the bill? I thought college students were meant to be cheap. Lydia told me Stiles is living off of ramen and, like, a potato."

"Doesn't sound all _that_ different from his usual diet," said Scott with a chuckle.

Malia reached for her second burger. "Yeah, but now he's using the college thing as an excuse. Which is driving Lydia insane."

"Of course he is."

"Guess it's better she's worrying about his diet more than, like, FBI academy sorority girls."

"I don't think the FBI has sororities."

"UC Davis does."

She'd said it while looking fixedly at her plate, and Scott fought to suppress a smile. "Sorority girls are overrated," he said idly. "And, uh, college girls in general…"

That got her to look up. "Yeah?" she said, lips quirking. "I mean, y'know, mysterious French guys aren't _that_ great either. Especially if they're lying about their fries."

He smiled, that time. She smiled back, showing her teeth. Underneath the bright fluorescent lights, there remained nothing to fear.

Outside, some time and no time later, they stood for a little while, digesting both the meal and what had been said, what hadn't. Scott felt a curious lightness in his navel. Even after Kira had left and never returned from a distance their relationship couldn't maintain, he found he couldn't regret whatever it was he was sharing with a girl who seemed destined to leave for France one day soon. He didn't regret spending the summer with her, comforting each other about being hunted, the delirious blood loss-fuelled rambling, the shy smiles and waves, the feeling of her soft hand in his. Watching her now, bathed in the light of the three-quarter moon, that second thing that could not long be hidden, and transformed by the buzzing neon glow of the diner's signs into something ethereal, immutable, and without fear, Scott didn't regret a single thing.

Her eyes found his once more, and in them he glimpsed what came after a war.

 

////

 

They were the last to arrive at the ruins of the Hale house.

The others were lingering by their cars, looking up at the old shell with apprehension. Lydia's hair caught the Jeep's headlights first, and Scott tried to remember if she'd been back here since bringing Peter Hale back from the dead, and wondered if her Banshee senses would be able to tell her just exactly how long it had taken Derek's family to burn. He saw Corey next, looking so miserably pale he was almost transparent, and Liam was beside him, hauling four sleeping bags out of the trunk of Lydia's car and wearing the expression of someone pretending they were on some weird school trip to a haunted house instead of being on the run.

"You made it!" he said as they emerged from the Jeep. "Started to think we had the wrong place."

"Sorry, I wanted more waffles," said Malia, not sounding sorry at all. She was too busy glaring at something, or rather  _someone_ , off to the side. "I think _he_ got the wrong place, though."

Leaning against his car, Theo was shrouded half in shadow and a smirk. "What, and miss the sleepover? We gonna start with Spin The Bottle or can we skip right to Truth Or Dare?"

Scott nodded his head to Lydia. "Quinn?" 

Lydia shook hers in return. "She has my number. It's up to her."

"Yeah." He turned to Corey next. "I'm sorry about all this. Lying to Mason… You know why we had to do it, right?"

The younger teen's eyes were wet. "Yeah," he said. "I get it. I don't like it, but I get it." With a sigh, he reached into his backpack. "Deaton wanted you to have this. We think we know what's affecting the town."

From his bag he produced a thick leather-bound tome, one page bookmarked with a yellow post-it note. Corey handed it to Scott, but it didn't stay in his hands long, instead plucked by Malia to be placed into Lydia's waiting and somehow still perfectly manicured ones. Scott reached out and grasped Corey's shoulder in thanks, and said, "All right, let's head inside, try and get some sleep."

Malia went over to the Jeep, grabbed her bag and one of Scott's and trailed after Lydia, who was already thumbing through Deaton's book, and Corey, carrying two of the sleeping bags and a pile of blankets. Liam, still juggling his own burden, ambled over to Scott.

"I texted Hayden," he said, half-apologetic, half-defiant. "I had to warn her, you know. She and her sister have gone to ground, but I told her to be ready to run, just in case."

"Good," said Scott. "It was the right call."

"So was yours, back at the station." Liam looked down at his shoes and kicked at the fallen leaves. "You think they'll be okay? Jiang and Tierney? I know they killed people, but… they were Satomi's pack." Quieter, he added, "And Brett and Lori's."

Scott did not quite know how to reply. "I don't know," seemed too insufficient, and far from what Liam needed to hear, so he said, "Yeah. I think they survived because of us. Because you wanted to protect them." He glanced to his left - Theo hadn't moved, a silent spectre. "And because _you_ brought them to us because you knew we could help. So thank you."

The rest went unsaid - _Thank you for staying, thank you for fighting, and for trying to make up for everything._ He doubted they would ever be friends, and some wounds would stay bleeding forever, but for now, somehow, Theo was with them. At the very least, another soldier for the war.

Theo's face stayed very still for a moment, and betrayed nothing. Eventually, he said brusquely, "I'll take watch tonight," and left before either Scott or Liam could get a word in.

They watched him go, and, with a nonplussed look and a shrug, Liam turned and headed up to the Hale house. Scott watched him go too, and once alone for the first time all night, he paused to close his eyes, letting every sound and smell of the woods wash over him. Owls hooted at the soft breeze, each leaf on every branch swayed and rustled in tandem one second and in chaotic discord the next. This far out from town, the air smelt clean and crisp, the forest's earthy aroma that of a calmer, slumbering, creature that felt no ugly, malformed, fear, only the gentle wind and the gentler thrum of the currents coursing beneath it. If he concentrated hard enough, he could smell the spent ashes inhabiting the Hale's ruined home, but that fire had gone out long ago, and any spilled blood had long since dried, so he felt no sting, no bittersweet reminder of the cost of his kind crossing Hunters.

The Hales and all their legacy had never recovered from that fire, their strength and heart lost with Talia, along with Derek's innocence and Peter's sanity. They weren't the only legends lost to a bloody history anymore - the Alpha Pack had been destroyed by one victim on a hunt of her own, and now Satomi's pack, despite their commitment to a path of peace, were near to extinct, all those young wolves murdered or murderers, scattered and lost and dead. Corpses upon corpses, burned or slashed or shot, reeking of fear 'til the end, and all that remained was Scott McCall and the friends he had left to him.

 _"Sometimes wars take prisoners,"_ he'd said to the Sheriff.

 _"And others take none,"_ the Sheriff had replied.

The thought chilled him more than the night ever could. 

Not much had changed on the outside of the Hale house, and even less in the inside. The charred ruin the county had bought with grand plans to demolish and build over had remained the charred ruin without ambition Scott knew so well. When he entered, ducking under an askew doorframe, he could hear Liam and Corey exploring, looking for a place to settle down for the night. Lydia he found by the soft white light of her phone, sitting against what was once a living room wall in her sleeping bag, looking small, alone.

She looked up when he entered. "She's in the next room," she said with a knowing little smile.

"Thanks," he murmured, though he knew that already; his feet had been following Malia's heartbeat. "You all right?"

"No visions," she said promptly. "We're safe tonight."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know, Scott." Her smile faded, and she glanced down at her phone. "I was just… thinking about calling him. It's late on the east coast, but not that late. And you know Stiles, he's probably reading FBI instruction manuals for the ninth time." She spoke with a soft fondness that was becoming increasingly familiar to him, and the taint of sadness beneath it moreso. "I already told him I have classes in the morning… and I think that if I call, I… He'll figure it out."

Scott swallowed thickly. "Yeah. Maybe." 

"Definitely," corrected Lydia. "He's the one that figures it out, _always_. And if he figures out we're lying to him… I'm not worried he won't forgive us. He will. I'm worried he'll catch the first bus or plane or boat he can to get back here as soon as possible. And if they get to him first…" She sighed a sigh that felt like the passing of years. "After we got him back from the Wild Hunt, I remember wondering, "Why didn't we figure it out sooner?" Us, I mean. We had chances, chances we could've taken, so many times, to say something, acknowledge _anything_ , but we… just didn't. We didn't, and he was here for barely a week before he left me again." She looked down at her phone, and her eyes were shining. "There's never enough time…"

It struck Scott then that he was the lucky one, on this night of all nights. Lydia was alone, Liam was alone, Corey was alone. Theo too, and Quinn if she was out there, deciding whether or not to join their pack. The eve of the war, the night they could've made the choice to be with someone they loved and instead chose Beacon Hills. He didn't blame Liam for reaching out to Hayden. Corey's tears of anger and sorrow were beyond justified. The look in Lydia's eyes with the square of white and a name captured within them would haunt him. Scott ached for them, his friends, his pack. He wouldn't want to be alone either, and tonight, he hadn't been. 

In the next room over, Malia's heartbeat was slowing into sleep, not quite gone, but getting there. The storm within his own heart was raging. He had to talk to her, he had to tell her something, anything, everything. That third thing that could not long be hidden. 

"Call Stiles," he told Lydia softly. "Tell him you can't sleep, tell him that you needed to hear his voice. Let him ramble about FBI instruction manuals, he'll like that."

Lydia's smile returned to her face like the first flower after a cold winter. "I will," she said, caressing her phone.

"Then try and get some rest. We'll need it."

"I will," she said again. "Goodnight, Scott."

"G'night," he murmured, tuning out the dialling tones as he moved towards the next room, not wanting to intrude on an intimate moment.

Malia, true to her baser coyote instincts, had constructed a new den out of sleeping bags and blankets in the corner of the room. She was already burrowed in her own bag, and what he presumed was his was rolled out beside her, though consciously or unconsciously placed he did not know. He had a feeling though, just as he did for the ease of which she had made herself at home here of all places, among the burned legacy of her family. It was sad image, her so comfortably surrounded by such ghosts, but bemusement returned when he saw his duffel bag had been opened, and she had helped herself. 

"Is that one of my hoodies?" he asked.

She _mhm_ 'd, but did not open her eyes. "Looks better on me," she said sleepily.

He couldn't disagree there. "Do we have to have a talk about the moralities of stealing?" he teased, kicking off his shoes.

"We're about to be on the run from the FBI," Malia shot back. _"Your_ idea, by the way."

"Or one FBI agent in particular, at least." Scott shucked off his jeans for a pair of sweatpants. "But you got me there."

"Shoulda seen it coming since you hacked Argent's computer."

"Oh yeah, it's definitely a spree." Tentatively, he moved to approach her, and knew his apprehension had nothing to do with approaching a territorial creature's den; she had more than invited him in by this point. "Probably shouldn't have even paid for the burgers. Gotta live up to my reputation."

Malia snorted, and stayed studiously still as he settled into his sleeping bag, which rustled obnoxiously loud but not as loud as his hesitation. For a moment they lay side by side with the smallest yet greatest of distances between them, a new gulf to cross with only a rickety bridge to trust, until she crossed first without ceremony. Her head rose, then fell, landing on his chest, and one of her legs draped across his. Without a thought, he slid his arm around her shoulders, and his fingers found one of the strings of his hoodie and idly danced on it. Her eyes remained closed, but he kept his open, wanting to cherishing this image of vulnerability, sear into his brain the feeling of her body nestled into his. Her hair tickled his nose, and he grinned. Holding her felt comfortably familiar and thrillingly new all at once. If Allison had been like a bright flame, irresistible to his young mind no matter how it burned him, and Kira had been a spark, jolting his heart and sending tingles to his toes, with Malia he felt like he'd come off of a rollercoaster and found steady ground, so warm he knew he'd never be cold again. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite locate the words to convey that, and he doubted he ever could. 

So instead, he continued to play with the strings of his hoodie - now hers, it seemed - until she huffed out a breath. "You want it back?" she asked. "I could sleep naked, if you prefer…"

Scott's throat went very dry. "I, uh, you probably, you'd be cold, so… y'know…"

"You'd keep me warm," she said simply, and looked up at him, eyes flashing open. The impish little grin on her lips was a blazing beacon in the darkness, and, he, with great and terrible effort, resisted the urge to lean down and kiss her. He'd been resisting that urge for a while now.

Instead, he sought once more to find the right words. "Lia…" he murmured, half a question, half a prayer.

"S'okay," she murmured back, and lowered her head back down, near surrendered to her slumber. "Sleep now, feelings later."

With a chuckle he felt deep from his chest, he drew her in closer, one arm curling around her back, the other seeking her hand to intertwine their fingers together. He squeezed, _I'm here_. She squeezed back, _I'm here too._

She was asleep within seconds, her soft breathing the most important sound in the world, and Scott followed soon after, without any other thoughts, fears or doubts to assail him. They would wake in the morning teenagers no longer, soldiers until the war was won, but for now, together, the night was theirs.

 

////

 

_"What did you think we were going to do? Run?"_

 

////

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needless to say, the handholding scene beyond killed me on first viewing, and I couldn't resist exploring what came after. Next two chapters are basically done and I'm hoping to have them out before 6x18/6x19 airs on Sunday, and there's some great stuff to look forward to (near death experiences! the kiss! everyone getting hurt! war! "Too Late"!).
> 
> If you enjoyed the fic, I hope you take the time to drop a review - I'm not expecting thousand word essays or whatever, just comment what your favourite moment or line or scene was! Or just talk about how much these two fucked you up, because I am right there with you. Also, if you need more of a fix, I'd highly recommend you go check out sarcastic_fina's fics here on AO3, because they are ridiculously amazing and deserving of more love. Thanks for reading!


	2. And Others Take None

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who left a comment, kudos'd and bookmarked! I'm glad to be sharing the Scott/Malia love with y'all, and while this chapter is going to be a more retell-y in parts than the last one and the next, we got some fun stuff ahead, both stupidly romantic and angsty near-death-y, so hope you enjoy!

Not running was easy. Planning for war was harder.

In the veterinary clinic's operating room, the sunlight filtering through the windows felt intolerably like a saboteur, a spy in their midst, subverting the efforts of a war council with malicious intent cloaked in a warm smile. They gathered around the cold metal table and ignored its gleam, surrounded themselves with empty cages and tried not to count them, for fear there were just enough to hold them all. As much as Scott would've liked to blame the tension on the creature they had unleashed upon the town, the thing Deaton called the Anuk-Ite, he couldn't; with Deaton himself absent, seeking information to help combat it, the only enemies this council could prepare to fight were human ones.

"It's getting bad at the school," Mason was telling them. "I heard Gabe and Aaron talking about "testing" students, same way Nolan did when he stabbed Corey. Only, they'll do it to everyone. They could've already started. And if they find even _one_ of you guys…"

Scott's stomach sunk. "They'll hand them over to Monroe and Gerard."

"They know we're not actually gone by now, right?" said Liam, crossing his arms. "This could be their way of drawing us out."

"And it'd work," Theo said as casually as he was leaning against the far wall. "They know you guys can't resist a good piece of bait."

He wasn't wrong, but Scott did not, would not, see that as a weakness. The reason they'd stayed in Beacon Hills in the first place was to help people, save them, because the longer the Hunters thought the town was theirs, the more would get hurt. Beside him, Malia's frown was severe, but all she had to say. Lydia, however, had gone pale.

"I wrote a list," she said, with equal parts frustration and horror. "I wrote a list of every supernatural at the school, I gave it to my mom, it's in a drawer in her desk. If they get their hands on it…"

"You had no way of knowing," said Scott. "We just have to -" The sound of two approaching heartbeats cut him off. They sounded familiar enough to his ears, but he couldn't help but be alert. "Incoming. Front door."

The sudden tension in the room could've shattered glass. Mason, the only one not meant to be in hiding, was sent to check, and he shared a look with Corey as he went. Theo pushed himself off of the wall and circled to a corner, Liam's eyes flashed gold, and Scott and Malia turned as one, coiled and ready, waiting, listening… Mason's footsteps heading to the front of the clinic, the pace of his heart quickening… then skipping, slowing down. The lock on the clinic door slid open, the bell above it rang, and instantly, every drawn muscle in the room relaxed.

Scott smelled them first, and had a smile ready when they entered. They made a curious image, Chris with his beard and leather jacket, his mom with her green scrubs and hair swept in a messy bun, but there was a glint in Chris's expression that not even the grave situation couldn't dull, one that Scott had been seeing a lot more of lately, and Melissa McCall's palpable relief at seeing her son could've climbed mountains.

"Hey mom," he said, with a grin and a wave. To Chris, he said, "You filled her in?"

"She'd figured it out already," he replied, eyes dancing. "There are two tails at the hospital, they think she's attending a bypass for the next couple of hours."

"Three tails," Melissa corrected him. "Your dad's hanging around, Scott. Somehow got a hunch you haven't left town."

"Guess they don't train FBI agents for nothing," said Lydia. "The Sheriff will be glad to hear that, he's paying Stiles's tuition…"

"It's not just that," said Melissa. "Those two kids from the standoff last night are missing. They found the FBI van out on the road, claw marks all over it. The driver was just knocked unconscious, but there was blood, lots of it."

Scott glanced to Liam, who shook his head and said, "That wasn't us. You're saying Jiang and Tierney are gone?"

"Claw marks could mean they escaped," hoped Scott.

"Or they could've just as easily been faked," said Chris darkly.

"We don't know that. Not yet." Malia's hand snaked out and brushed his lower back, and Scott, moored, continued, "They could still be out there, hurt."

"The Sheriff's already on the case," his mother informed him. "Parrish too. But Scott, if they _are_ out there -"

"Then the Hunters will be looking for them, I know." Scott kept the sigh of frustration in his chest, but he did run a hand through his hair. "Okay… Okay. Chris, we had an idea, and we'll need your help for it. You said Gerard had an entire armoury full of weapons, right?"

Chris shook his head immediately. "It's too heavily guarded. Round the clock patrols, over a dozen men."

"We can take a dozen," said Malia breezily. "I'll take half, you guys get the rest."

"A dozen men that I _saw_. _"_ Chris pressed hard on the word. "The only way, and I do mean _only_ way, we could pull this off is to get as many of them to leave as possible. Only way to do _that_ is to draw them out with something worth the manpower."

"Like me," realised Scott, and nodded resolutely. "They can't resist a good piece of bait either. We distract them, then sneak in and destroy the weapons."

"It could also distract them from looking for Jiang and Tierney," said Malia.

"And testing the kids at school," added Mason.

"I can draw 'em out," said Liam, raising his hand. "It'll be like when I was bait for the Wild Hunt. Easy."

Behind him, Theo cleared his throat. "You mean when _we_ were bait for the Wild Hunt. You only got away from them because of me, remember? And do you have anything even remotely resembling a plan, or are you just going to run down main street and hope for the best?"

"I have a plan!" said Liam, indignant the first time, then a little more sure the second and third, "I have a plan. Yep, I have a plan."

"I'm just _filled_ with confidence," Theo said dryly, "and also regret everything."

"I can help with that too," said Mason. "I'm still at school, and if they're watching Scott's mom, they'll be watching me. We can use that."

"And I _do_ know a guy who knows a guy that can get some thermite," said Chris, stroking his beard with a calloused hand. "We could be ready to go in a couple of days."

Malia clapped her hands together. "Great. Everyone's got plans. Go team."

From the corner, Corey piped up, "I, uh, I don't have a plan."

"Looking out for Mason is a plan. Just like I'll look out for Scott." When more than one pair of eyes swivelled her way, Malia hastened to clarify, "I mean, I'll be looking out for Lydia too. I can multitask."

"I'll just take care of myself," said Lydia. "Probably the safest option."

"What she said," commented Theo.

 _"Shocker,"_ muttered Liam.

Scott felt a warmth threaten to bubble up from within him. For all he felt like a general sending his soldiers to go on suicide missions one moment, his friends remained, as ever, themselves, and in that moment, the alien atmosphere of a war council dissolved, and the sunlight felt a familiar confidant again, as earned as a pack's trust in one another. An immense pride filled his chest and rushed to his cheeks, and he cast a grin at Malia, then turned to Corey. "You head to the school. You're the only one who can sneak in and get that list from Lydia's mom's desk. Can you do that?"

Corey's nod was shaky at best, but beside him, Mason took his hand, the earlier lie hanging over them forgotten, forgiven. Corey's second nod was firmer. "I've got it, Scott."

"Good. And Liam?" Scott looked to his beta. "You sure you're up for being the bait?"

Destroying Gerard's arsenal had been his first idea for good reason, to try and subdue that terrible beast of foreboding dread prickling at the back of his neck that he felt looking at Monroe's lynch mob with their rifles and shotguns. The Wild Hunt's pistols could erase them, leave nothing behind. Gerard's guns would leave bodies, real and tangible and soaked in the acrid stench of gunpowder and blood. Knowing that made it far from easy to ask this mission of Liam, and it became even harder when Liam did not hesitate to reply, "Yeah, I'm doing this."

Theo rolled his eyes. "What, no concern for me? I'm playing bait too."

Simultaneously, Liam rolled his eyes back, Lydia shrugged her shoulders, and Malia retorted, "No, not really."

With plans in place and missions in motion, Scott called an ending to their meeting. His friends - and Theo - dispersed from the clinic to meet at their next safehouse for the night ahead, and his mom pulled him aside to gather him in a hug.

"I'm so proud of you," she said. "I feel like I don't say it enough, but it's true every damn day. And as much as I want you at college, going to classes and parties you pretend I won't know about, I'm still proud you didn't run. I knew you wouldn't. I raised you right."

"You did," he told her. "I feel like I don't say that enough either."

His mother nodded up at him, and, reluctantly, let him go. Malia and Chris were both hovering near the door waiting for them, and on her way out, his mom stopped to hug the werecoyote as well. For half a second Malia reacted as if being electrocuted, but responded in kind, smiling softly.

"Take care of him," he heard his mother whisper.

"Of course," Malia replied. "He takes care of all of us."

Melissa left with Chris soon after, leaving Scott and Malia alone for the first time since they'd awoken together that morning. The moment wasn't awkward, or unsure; it couldn't possibly be, not with her standing there with sunlight cascading through her hair. It was almost overwhelming, staring at the edge of the abyss they seemed destined to jump off, but perhaps they already had, and the swooping in his stomach was the fall. They were falling together.

"Now we're going to bomb an armoury…" she mused. "You're really moving up in the criminal world."

That time, he let the bubbling laughter win.

 

////

 

When the alarms shut off, the last of the fresh air escaped without a sound, and hope quickly became as precious of a resource as every escaping breath.

Beads of sweat began to roll down his forehead, and hers too. Already, the room felt moist and rancid on his skin, suffocating in its infinite finiteness, four thick walls of steel and concrete, a roof so strong a bomb could drop and not shake loose a speck of dust, foundations so stable it seemed so foolish they even dared attempt to rock them. Getting into the armoury, he thought that would've been the hard part, the part where they fought men with guns and an itch to use them, traversed a labyrinth of endless, twisting, corridors, and planted high powered, fast-burning, explosives in strategic locations, then ran like hell and braced for heat in their nostrils and ringing in their ears. The scent they caught hadn't been gun oil and acrylic and plastic, but instead two scared teenagers, the last of their pack, trapped behind in an inner vault door. _Bait_. Gerard had emptied his armoury, baited them with Jiang and Tierney, and let them trigger the motion sensors, let them trap themselves, let them fail to find a way out before the air was sucked from the room, let them die, painful and slow.

The empty shelves surrounding them reminded him all too much of the cages back at the clinic, yet worse; you kept prisoners in cages, but you put trophies on shelves. Trophies like a scrap of skin with a stack of rocks seared onto the flesh. Trophies like a pair of bloodied wolf ears. In glass cases on display for just them to find, before they too became entombed forever.

In his arms, lying half on him and half on the ground, her body bruised but not broken, Malia seemed to pick up his train of thought. "Don't," she said. "It's not your fault."

"I wanted to open the vault door."

"I helped. And I wasn't just talking about the door."

She was right, of course. At the time it had been easy to tell himself it was the right call in an impossible situation, to trust his dad to get Jiang and Tierney to safety and away from the Hunters. And now, two more dead teenagers, another Brett and Lori, and Scott and Malia to follow. "The Hunters got to the FBI, they staged an escape." It made Scott's swim more than the dying air absorbing into his lungs. "It just keeps bigger and bigger and… I sent Liam out there. They were ready for us here, they could've planned for him…"

Malia pressed her battered body deeper into his hold, an unsaid, _I know_. _I know._

 _And others take none_ , was all he could hear.

They sat there, drawing what little comfort they could, and waited. All too soon comfort fled too, taking lingering laughter with it, replacing it with the scraping of Malia's lungs as they tried desperately to find new air. Outside the armoury there were heartbeats, and more than just Lydia and Argent's; the other patrolmen had arrived, and they stood between his friends and freedom. He knew they'd find a way, he trusted the feeling in his gut telling him that more than anything, but it still hurt to hear Malia's breaths come in shorter and shorter than his. She had fallen asleep first, the night before, and he had relished it then, laying like they were now, the warmth pleasant, not rotten. Even earlier, with her atop him on the shelves, he had allowed himself to enjoy that after weeks of metaphorical things stirring between them, they'd found a position that lent itself to stirrings more… _literal_. Another new waltz for their dance. Already, that memory was distant, replaced with fear.

Suddenly, the sound of hissing smoke. Faint, but there, issuing from a grenade. One of Argent's. Scott closed his eyes and saw what he could hear, Argent's heavy footsteps, the barrel of his shotgun exploding, glass shattering. They were coming, but still so far. Still too far.

Against him, Malia's breathing sped up. The swell of her strangled throat grew heavy with a swallow, and she said, "Scott."

His eyes snapped open. "Try not to talk."

"I don't want to die like this."

"Oh, Malia…"

She shook her head. "Not like this."

"The more you talk, the more oxygen you'll -"

"I don't care." Her defiance almost betrayed her failing lungs. Almost. "I was supposed to go to France…" She inhaled, sharp, and exhaled, sharper, and his heart seized. "I'm eighteen. I haven't been anywhere… There's still too many things I wanna do." She craned her head back and looked at him. Her eyes were shining. Her whisper was despair, desperation. "I don't want to die here. Not here. Not like this."

Her eyes fluttered closed, and he retrieved her hand from her side and held it. Held her. Held everything. Every ragged breath was a knife to his stomach, the word _eighteen_ falling through him and pummelling every rib on the way down.

"I never… I never thanked you."

"For what?" he whispered, pleaded, begged. "Malia, for what?"

"For making me human."

The astonishing simplicity of her words blossomed like an inferno in his chest, and robbed of him anything he could dare reply with, anything that could possibly meet the enormity of her sighed declaration, the reminder of one day in the woods, a day where neither of them knew, could never have possibly conceived, what would be conjured from that moment, red eyes meeting blue, an Alpha's roar turning a coyote back into a girl. The day they met. The day they began.

Her pulse slowed, her head lolling as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Her body was shutting down, trying to save her, and he didn't know whether to let it or urge her to stay awake, to stay with him. He knew his own lungs couldn't last much longer than hers, wouldn't even want to, but still he held on, grasping blindly at nothing and everything and anything that looked like hope. He held onto her faint breathing like a liferaft in a raging tsunami, and tried so very hard not to remember another girl dying in his arms, so long ago. He leaned in, and pressed his lips to her clammy forehead.

"You'll go to France," he promised, clinging to her shallow breaths. "You're going to see the world. And maybe after… you'll come back. You'll come back to me. So just hold on, Lia… Come back to me…"

His vision began to grow dark as he repeated the mantra for her to just _hold on_ , grabbing her face, begging her to stay, the only thing left in the world. But he still heard the scream Lydia screamed, heard it in his bones like another scream from another night. Where once that scream spoke of incalculable loss, it now spoke of immeasurable power, a power that once opened a portal with its love, a power that could, and did, tear a steel door off its hinges. A rush of air surged through the room, clutching Scott's chest like talons and pressing, into his lungs and out, and Malia's too, her eyes shooting open as they both beheld Lydia Martin, standing in the light with her arms outstretched and looking all the world like a Valkyrie refusing her divine calling.

They were saved. And while the air still tasted of gunpowder and smoke and the words of the dying, it never tasted so sweet.

 

////

 

Later, in the car and speeding down a back road with the windows down, Scott allowed himself to relax, just a little. Malia laid across the backseat and him both, her head and upper torso on his lap, her bare legs covered by Chris's jacket. Her eyes were closed, like him drinking in the night, but her jaw was set in just enough annoyance as the truck jostled at every dip and bump in the road to make him want to laugh. He didn't, and contented himself with running his fingers through her hair, watching her annoyance transform into a soft, near to imperceptible, smile.

In the driver's seat, Chris's shoulders were drawn, hands gripping the steering wheel. "He knew we were coming," he said, though Scott wasn't sure if he was talking to them or himself. "He knew to move those weapons the second I saw them." He let out a disgusted noise. "I should've killed him. I should've put another bullet in his chest and walked away. Satomi's pack were all Buddhists for Christ's sake, they wouldn't have… And now they're all gone too."

 _And others take none_. "I need to call Liam," said Scott. "Lydia?"

She did not seem to hear him. Since the moment they'd escaped the armoury, Lydia had been preoccupied with staring into nothing, cellphone in hand, absently swiping her thumb on the screen.

"Lydia? My phone's dead, can I…?"

Lydia passed it without breaking from her trance, and the automatic gesture made Scott frown more than seeing Stiles's name already highlighted in her contacts list. As he scrolled up to find Liam's, he asked, "Lydia, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, reflexive, muted. "Throat hurts. Took down a big door."

"Good lookin' out for us, Lyds," mumbled Malia. "Multitasking."

"It's not just that," insisted Scott. "Lydia, are you _okay?"_

The answer was expected, but no less foreboding. "I had a vision."

"Back at the armoury? Was it us?"

Her fingers began to twirl at nothing, as if she was still holding the phone now in Scott's hand. "It was the armoury," she said. "You guys almost died, so it had to be that."

But still her eyes remained faraway, unseeing, and she murmured to herself, _"Bullet casings…"_ Feeling unsettled, and in need of some good news, Scott hit Liam's number, and waited. After three rings, his beta picked up, and relief flooded his veins.

"Are you okay?" he asked promptly. "How it'd go? Liam?"

"We're fine, Scott," Liam replied on the other end. "I mean, we got away. They didn't kill us."

"I kinda figured, yeah. But I'm glad. You did good, I'm proud."

"Yeah… and you guys?"

 _We almost died, the weapons were gone, and Jiang and Tierney are dead…_ It sat on the tip of his tongue, the knowledge that he would soon have to burden Liam with, that the last members of Satomi's pack were dead, that they had sent them to their deaths. That wasn't something he wanted to do at all, and even less so over the phone, so for now he said, "Long story, but we're okay, heading back to my house now. Mason's bringing takeout."

"Great! We're still a while out, though I think it'll feel longer if this jackass doesn't stop with the country music radio."

Theo's voice was distant, smug. "Driver chooses the music, that's the rule. You don't like it, you can walk."

 _"Dick,"_ said Liam with no real heat, and then to Scott, "We'll see you at the house."

"Yeah. And Liam? You really did do good. I'm proud of you."

"You already said that."

"I know, but I… I don't think I say it enough."

For a moment, Liam didn't reply, perhaps thrown by the earnestness of his tone, but eventually he matched it with a stuttered, "Y-yeah, uh, thanks Scott," and hung up.

"What was that about?" asked Malia.

Scott shrugged, returning the phone to Lydia's waiting hand. "It's just that… When the idea of distracting the Hunters came up, he volunteered for it. Immediately. He's not even seventeen."

"You're not even nineteen," Chris pointed out dryly. "And you volunteered too."

"We all volunteered," said Lydia, sounding half in a dream.

On Scott's lap, Malia shifted. _I'm only eighteen_ , she had said with what she was refusing to be her last breaths. And then Lydia, having lived a hundred years in the past three, and lived them far too alone. And Argent, more than twice their age but still much too young for the grief and loss weighing on his shoulders. He would've had to be the one to tell Scott's mother if he'd died, another dead teenager on his conscience, a burden beyond comprehension. Scott felt terribly sad for them. Even the Hunters, with their automatic weapons and the Anuk-Ite whispering dread in their ears. Even Gerard, who took a bullet from his own son and still decided to spend his final days bathing in hatred and fear and blood. He felt sad for them all.

Malia frowned up at him. "Stop thinking," she muttered. "We didn't die. Wasn't a total loss."

"No," he agreed, stroking her hair, watching the frown transmute itself once more into a smile. "It wasn't."

"Besides, we got the map."

Quite honestly, Scott had completely forgotten about the map he'd swiped from the inner vault. Malia seemed to realise when his hand stilled, and her eyes shot open. The little smile had reached them. She looked radiant. She looked an hour older than the girl who'd almost died in his arms. She looked eighteen, and as ridiculously _alive_ as him.

 

////

 

What happened next was inevitable.

Mason had Chinese waiting for them at his house, and Scott's mother forced them to pretend for five minutes to eat it before going back to war, and so they did. While Chris kept throwing glances at the rolled up map sitting on the dining room table, he knew better than to fight Melissa McCall on anything, and did not. Lydia picked at her rice and answered Mason's assurances about him not having done any damage to her car with the occasional _hmm_. Malia didn't stick around to eat, she had already slipped upstairs, and Scott trailed after without a word, finding her where he expected, where he hoped, where they'd found something over the summer and found something else a few nights earlier, her hand in his.

From the doorway, he watched as she hovered by his desk with her back turned to him, carrying the air of someone arming themselves for battle. The light glinted on the gilded lacrosse trophies nearby, trophies from a normal life and not of lives taken, stolen before their time, encased in glass with all their laughter, their tears, their loves, their fears, kids just like them, now scraps of bloody flesh.

Scott let out a breath he'd been holding in all night. "You okay?"

Malia did not answer, nor did she hesitate. She turned, and stepped toward him. The ground didn't quake, but his heart hammered in his chest all the same.

"Remember what I said out there?" she asked. "When the air was running out?"

He matched her stride, met hers the middle. "You mean about going to France?"

She shook her head. Her eyes were very bright. "I mean about all the things I said I haven't done, and all the things I still want to do…"

"Yeah."

"This is one of them."

Her lips met his, and the cacophony in his head and heart ceased entirely. Inevitable or no, the shock of it threatened his knees to shake themselves to dust, his stomach seemed fit to burst through his throat, and he tilted his head forward, drawing towards her, matching the kiss like he had her steps, but by then she'd already pulled back. But not away, never away. Her hands splayed on his chest, as if seeking permission to his heart, as if it didn't already belong to her with the rest of him. She steadied herself on him, and the noise in his head returned gentler, chords of a familiar song played by a new musician, but sweet to hear, oh so sweet, the promise of a tune that lasted longer, nestled in his very soul, a melody of forevers.

Malia had made the first move, and now, it was his turn. He let his expression ask, ask if she was sure, really sure, as if they hadn't reached that point of no return some unknowable, unidentifiable, wonderfully indistinct yet gloriously real, time ago. He thought of Stiles and Lydia then, how they'd look at each other and think they should've figured it out sooner, that they didn't have enough time. With him and Malia, he thought that every single thing had to happen exactly how it happened to bring them to this moment. _Their_ moment.

He reached up and cupped her face, guided it to his, and they began again, two planets orbiting each other, now colliding, colliding, _colliding._ Kissing without abandon, her hands running up his back, his burying into her hair, holding on for dear life. She held on too, yanking at the back of his hair, thumb running over his neck, and on and on and on they went. Lips clashing for control, her hand on his chin, his on hers; the war was in their kiss, and how could it not be, they'd been fighting each other and themselves for so long it could only end in battle, in surrender. The flare of aggression, and its heat, its intensity, soon softened, melted, and for a moment they retreated, still holding each other, their foreheads touching, breathless and breathing as one.

Scott never wanted it to end, but his ears pricked at the sound of his dad's voice downstairs, and, reluctantly, gently, he pulled away. His arms protested leaving her greatly, every hair standing on end and gooseflesh erupting on the nape of his neck where she touched him like wildfire. He comforted himself with the notion that leaving his room with her and closing the door behind them to return to the fight wasn't anywhere close to being an ending. His lips tingled pleasantly, and they would for hours, he was sure.

Before they could leave, he had to tell her. "I never thanked you either."

She inclined her head. "For what?"

"Being there." He thought about the feeling of her hands on his heart. "Being here." He thought about everything that was her, and finished simply, "Being you."

Her smile could've illuminated a galaxy. Eighteen and alive and with all the things she wanted to do, all the things she would regret for the rest of her life if she didn't, and one of them had been kissing him. Nothing could've humbled him more.

Malia's hand grabbed his, and for a second time, she led him from his bedroom, out the door, down the stairs, and back to the war, but he lingered in the moment they'd just shared, forgetting. Forgetting about the war, the failed mission, about Lydia's vision, about Liam risking himself, about trophies, about almost dying, and almost losing her. Forgetting about the after, about her in France and him at UC Davis, so far apart. Forgetting everything. But not her kiss. Never that. Never the idea that the light could win. That the light _was_ winning.

 

////

 

Lydia's vision came to life in a hail of bullets, and he remembered all the things he forgot and more.

He remembered being pulled to the ground first, Malia gripping him tightly, shards of glass falling from her hair, her snarl bared at attackers unseen but for bright red laser sights and the fire and metal in the air. He remembered the sound of flesh tearing and bone shattering, of blood spilling, its copper taste wet on his tongue. He remembered a bloodied hand in his vision, and not knowing and knowing deep in his bones all at once who it belonged to. He remembered the ringing of his ears giving way to a cry of pain - Mason's, then Lydia's. His dad's gun clattered to the floor before he followed without a sound. Lydia's heart threaded, slowed, unconsciousness claiming her quickly, _too_ quickly. Chris was grunting, gasping, and when his hands pressed down _hard_ on the puddle forming around his mother's chest, the sickening _squelch_ sound made Scott want to vomit. His mom. They shot his _mom_. They shot his dad, Lydia, Mason. He couldn't conceive of how many bullets there were, on the ground, in the walls, in their bodies, but he felt every one and more dig into his skin, burrow into the depths of his very soul. He couldn't take their pain. He couldn't possibly take all of their pain.

Somebody called an ambulance, the Sheriff's department, Liam and Theo, half the town. Out of the ruin they carried the bodies - still breathing, but for a heartstopping moment Scott was convinced beyond reason the Anuk-Ite was making him see things - to the red and blue flashing lights, still pressing dishtowels to gushing wounds until the paramedics switched to proper dressings. If any of them - the paramedics, the deputies, the onlookers behind the cordon - noticed the black lines snaking up Scott's arm, Malia's, Liam's, they didn't say anything. They were too busy looking at the shattered windows of the McCall residence, whispering and murmuring, counting the spent bullet casings, ejected white-hot onto his front lawn, out on the street.

"Who did this?" the Sheriff asked, over and over. "Scott, who did this?"

He didn't know. He thought they'd been fighting hunters, who chased their prey, cornered them, trapped them before killing them, not faceless men with enough darkness in their hearts to unload automatic rifles on a suburban neighbourhood on a school night. And they hadn't pursued, hadn't walked into his house to make sure their enemy was dead. It had been an attack of fear, not strategy, and in that, they had succeeded. Ricocheting bullets could've hit their neighbours, or any random passersby on the street, putting out their trashcans or walking their dogs or trying to make it home after a night out. Hours later, Scott would ask himself if the Hunters emptied the neighbourhood first, or if they wanted innocent bystanders to get hurt to prove a point. He could see Gerard in that logic all too well, and in it, he glimpsed something else. Something he didn't want to know, something he already knew.

 _Who did this?_ the Sheriff had asked the night. Empty shelves in an empty armoury. _He's armed his army._ His mom, his dad, Lydia, Mason. _We all volunteered._ They couldn't heal. They'd shot the ones who couldn't heal. _Sometimes wars take prisoners._ But this was something beyond war _._ This was something beyond fear. _Testing students, could've already started, if they find even one of you guys…_ The Anuk-Ite, standing among the crowd, a conquering king presiding over a grand banquet. _We opened a door to another world._ His mom, his dad, Lydia, Mason, Brett, Lori, Jiang, Tierney, Satomi, Liam, Malia… _And others take none_. Something beyond war. Something like extinction.

 

////

 

_Who did this?_

_We did._

 

////

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter's going to hit like an emotional truck filled with emotions, because goddamn it's been a week and I'm still reeling from four of the group getting shot. Until then, be sure to drop a comment about how much Malia's speech in the armoury messed you up, or the kiss (and that song tho. This chapter was almost called "I Let You In My Heart" for good reason.), because I'm right there with you. Thanks all for reading, see you again soon!


	3. Too Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brief delay in getting this up, but here we are, the last chapter of this little series! It's a long one, kind of a gauntlet of emotions and Scott asking himself some hard questions, but I hope you enjoy it!

The hospital was a blur. 

Nurses and orderlies scurried back and forth, shouting over each other, calling in Liam's stepdad, prepping multiple surgery rooms. It was another night in Beacon Hills Memorial, but for the first time in a long time, their patients hadn't been victims of something strange they could explain away, like wild animal attacks or strange men with swords. Gunshot wounds, human violence at its simplest and cruelest, were almost a novelty, but they wouldn't remain so for much longer. _He's armed the whole town…_

"Scott, the map." Argent's voice was far away, beyond an echo. "It's Nemetons. Gerard's not stopping at Beacon Hills. He's not stopping at all. This ends with every supernatural in the world dead. It's a genocide."

The word swam with the _war_ in his veins, but it was languid, untethered, without form or function in the current state of his reality. He had to be asleep. It had to be a nightmare. He had been tired, so tired after the armoury and all the air leaving his lungs, after everything that came before, and the darkness creeping in his vision and singing sweetly in his ears seemed so much more real than _genocide_ , it had to be a dream. He counted his fingers, and thought they must be lying to him. He stared at the glowing red _EXIT_ sign above the hospital doors, and waited for the words to stop making sense. He couldn't stare too long at the red, seeing laser sights he should've seen sooner, before the bullets, before the blood. He'd been too late. The cruelest words in the world: _Too late._

Time became unknowable, transient, minutes and hours all the same in the long wait. Liam was the first to leave to patrol the hospital perimeter, and Theo followed to patrol him and his rising anger. Argent was gone next, remembering his training, compartmentalising in front of their eyes in a way that looked like breaking, and headed off into the night looking for answers, hope, anything. Corey arrived, turned invisible so they couldn't see his tears, and pressed a crumpled piece of paper in Scott's hand. The list of supernaturals Scott had tasked him to retrieve, _before_. 

"I already called them," said Mrs Martin, glassy-eyed with shock. Scott hadn't even seen her arrive. "I already called everyone on the list and told them not to come to school today. I told them to stay home."

"Home's not safe either," said Scott, hollow. "Home's not safe…"

The blur of the hospital returned, so white and sterile he was blinded by it. When vision returned to him, she was the first thing he saw. They were in a bathroom, and Malia was leading him to the sink. She hadn't left his side once. She was still there. It wasn't until he heard rushing water that he looked down and realised why they were there: his hands and hers were both crimson, flakes of dried blood falling to the floor like powdered red snow. His father's blood, he remembered. He had trusted Chris to keep pressure on his mom's wound, and gone to his dad's side. His dad's blood, but it looked like Lydia's and Mason's and his mother's too.

"It'll wash off," Malia promised him, but she didn't guide either of their hands to the water. She had both Lydia and Mason's blood on hers, he remembered. 

Scott swallowed the lump threatening to consume his throat. "Will it?"

Their eyes locked in the cracked mirror above the sink. Hers were shining with fear and determination in one, both impossibly lost and irrevocably found. In them, he saw her mother and her sister, her dad, the Desert Wolf, everything else she blamed herself for, deep down inside. His eyes were impossibly dark, but he wondered if she could see Allison in them, or Boyd and Erica and Aiden, Brett and Lori, Jiang and Tierney, and all the others he'd failed in between. The spray of water sounded like bullets. 

Eventually, they got to work. After all these years, cleaning blood off was almost second nature. The only new thing about it was that they were doing it together, his hands and hers. He couldn't have found the words to thank her for being there if he tried. It felt like they were back in the tunnels, one of her hands on his and the other on his cheek, taking his pain away, only this time her very presence leeched from him his fear and cast it down the drain with all the blood. This time, they knew why she was able to take his pain, and he hers. Had it only been hours ago they kissed, stealing from the world what little they could, a fraction of what they deserved, in between brushes with death's cold embrace? 

By the time their hands were clean, he found the words. "Tell me you're okay." His voice sounded distant to his own ears. "My dad, Mason, Lydia… my _mom_ … I just… I just need you to tell me _you're_ okay."

"I'm okay," she replied instantly. "Scott, I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere." 

But she had, almost, back in the armoury, her soul escaping in his arms no matter how hard he held on. He'd almost lost her. And then he'd almost lost her again, because he'd been _too late_ , and they had come for him. They were coming for everyone.

"I'm okay," she said again. "You're okay. And if you're not, you're going to be. Your mom and Lydia and Mason and your dad are going to need you. Because we do, okay? We all need you. _I_ need you, Scott."

"I need you too," said Scott, half-broken, half-whole.

And she said, "You have me."

She took him in her arms, fierce and gentle and so very _her_ , wrapping them around him tighter than she ever had, and he breathed her in for what felt like forever. Having her so close he felt a thief all over again, to be trusted in, cared for, beloved so. She was okay, and so was he. And soon, the running water didn't sound like gunfire, and all of the blood was washed away.

It was the longest night of his life, sitting in the waiting room and waiting, waiting, waiting. Malia sat beside him as long as she could, leaving only twice to check in with Liam, and both times her heartbeat stayed strong in his ears, guiding his own as he guided hers. When his mother's operation began to wind down, Malia's hand found his effortlessly, and when the all clear was given, the hand collapsed into his own as they had collapsed into each other. And in that instant, Scott was never gladder to be awake in a world where they all survived the night. A world where they all made it, and still could.

 

////

 

 _"You don't run,"_ his mother had told him, looking so very pale, sunken, but sounding so sure,  _"You fight."_

Fighting meant soldiers, soldiers for an army, and as it stood, his army was small, and dwindling by the battle. Throughout the long night, he'd run through his reinforcements in his mind, over and over, names upon names. Stiles, in Virginia and as vulnerable to bullets as ever; Kira, lost with the skinwalkers for good; Derek, wanted for mass murder, location unknown, and Cora's and Braeden's with him; Hayden, gone to ground with her sister; Isaac, last heard from in Amsterdam months ago; the omega Quinn, skipped town, probably the state; Jackson, in London and unlikely to care. Ethan, unknown; and Deucalion… His first call, but had proved ultimately fruitless; Deucalion was too seasoned by war, had tasted a peaceful life and preferred it going down, and after him they'd been forced to solicit their next worst option: Peter Hale.

And unfortunately, Peter had been Peter. Ever playing games, podding and poking at him like a needling insect he should've squashed long ago, Peter had brought him a present, one of Gerard's hunters, locked in a cell. The man, and he couldn't have been much older than Scott, had been given a gift of his own, and once fully armed, he had fired from within his cell, and he hadn't stopped. He had looked them right in the eyes, saw they weren't glowing, saw their teeth weren't fangs, and kept firing until he couldn't, and when all else failed, dove through the glass and tried to kill them with his bare hands. He wasn't just willing to kill, he was willing to die. He was a soldier, a prisoner of war, and his conviction was as strong as his fear. Peter's words echoed, _"He never gave up, I would fight with him, I_ like _him!"_  

Afterwards, Scott and Malia sat silently in the Jeep, the looming shadow of Eichen House hanging over them. Every base instinct screamed at him to start the car, to get away from that accursed asylum that even empty of patients felt full in the way a great beast having fed on despair for all its life did, sickeningly satisfied yet ever hungering for more. He wanted to get away, but he didn't know where to go, what to do. He knew Liam and Theo were looking for the Hunters that shot up his house, Corey was with Mason at the hospital, and Parrish and some deputies were watching over the other injured. Deaton hadn't returned his calls, still out there looking for information on the Anuk-Ite. Argent had disappeared.

 _Gerard's not stopping at Beacon Hills…_ If it didn't end there, if Gerard Argent's genocidal ambitions weren't ended before they could truly begin… His army, united by their ideal, encouraged by their fear, and so much bigger than Scott's pack… _Sometimes wars take prisoners,_ ran through his mind over and over, the Sheriff trying to warn him. _He never gave up…_ Peter Hale trying to push him… If he didn't have the army, he'd need to minimise Gerard's. He couldn't afford prisoners. He would need to leave bodies. That was the reality he had awoken to.

And yet… "It doesn't just stop with Gerard," he said aloud, breaking the silence. "If he dies, he dies a martyr, and Monroe takes up his mission. She dies, same thing, and it just keeps going and going…"

In the passenger seat, Malia tilted her head, listening.

"You know," he began, "when I got bitten, Derek told me it was a gift. I was attacked by an insane Alpha pretending to be a burned coma patient in his free time, and I was meant to think it was a _gift_. Peter, he… He was so relentless, he just kept _killing_ and tried to make me do it too, and Argent was talking about putting down rabid dogs and… I thought he was right. Thought we were all monsters, that _I_ was a monster, and I came _so_ close, so many times, to killing, and…" With a sigh, Scott reached forward and gripped the steering wheel. "But soldiers kill people too. If they're fighting a war, if they have to. And that doesn't make them monsters, right? If doing it means keeping the people they love safe. That's different, isn't it? It's not a solution, something that should be done to end a problem, or because it's _easier_. It's not, and it can't be. No matter what Peter thinks." 

"Peter's a jackass," said Malia bluntly.

"But _if_ he's right… I don't want him to be -"

"Then he won't."

"- but _everyone's_ telling me I have to kill. They've _always_ been telling me I have to kill. Peter wanted it, and Deucalion and his Alpha Pack, they wanted it too. And Kate…" Scott fought to suppress a shiver; some nights he could still feel the weight of the Berserker's skull on his. "I let them live. That wasn't weakness, it was the hardest thing in the world. And… I let Deucalion live, and he helped us against Theo last year. Aiden died a hero, Ethan gets to find redemption out there… Even Peter helped us stop the Wild Hunt. And then Theo… it was Liam who brought him back, so I let him bear that responsibility. Because he's kind of becoming his own Alpha, for Mason, Corey, Hayden, even Theo, somehow. When I bit Liam, I told him he wasn't a monster, because I thought we could be better, and believed it 'cause I was a True Alpha. But True Alphas only come once every hundred years, so the only way Liam becomes an actual Alpha is by killing another. He won't get a chance to be any different, and he's so _angry_ , he's so angry all of the time and all it takes is one bad day and it'll be like when he almost killed me on the night of the supermoon…"

When he tore his gaze away from the dashboard, Malia wasn't looking at him. She was staring at Eichen House, and stared for a long moment before saying, "I killed my mom, Kylie…" She said it not with her usual frankness, but the tone of someone saying aloud a secret kept deep inside, even if everyone in the world already knew it. "I wasn't in control, I get that, it took me a while but I got that, but… I've done it before. I'll do it again. If the time comes, _when_ it comes, and if it comes to it, I'll be right there beside you. You know I will be. I'll do it so you won't have to." 

"Malia…"

"It's okay, Scott. I can do this. I can take it."

"No, you can't." Scott leaned over and touched a hand to her face. She turned her head slowly, and he cradled it, coaxed her to meet his eyes. "And you shouldn't have to. Do you remember when you were going to kill the Desert Wolf? I told Stiles that I thought if any of us would've killed someone by that point, it'd be you. Not because you're a bad person, or a monster, but because you would do _anything_ if it meant protecting us. I knew you had it in you."

"Then let me do this," she whispered. "Let me do this for you."

He shook his head. "Listen, Stiles and Lydia, they have blood on their hands too, because I couldn't be there in time. Not just to stop them, but… I would've spared them that, if I could've. I would've spared you too. You didn't kill Corrine - you had every reason to want her dead, but you found another way. And you could still get out of this without killing. I want that for you, same as I do for Liam, for any of us. And if you're beside me when the time comes, then you know that means I'm there beside _you_. If it comes to it, it's my burden to bear." He let his words dangle in the air, and tried to find the right way to tell her why, and all he could come up with was, "It's what an Alpha does."

Malia shook her head out of his hand. "You're different."

"Not to them. That hunter back in the cell…" _He never gave up._  "None of them know about the Anuk-Ite. _I'm_ the thing they're afraid of. Gerard never cared that I haven't killed, I'm still a monster."

"You're not." In her defiance, Malia bared her teeth, and her eyes blazed. "You don't have to be, and you won't. Because you're Scott McCall. You're _good_ , and you make the right calls. Sometimes they're dumb calls, sure, but they're still right. And what's your plan now? You're going to fight, right?" 

"Yeah."

"Why?" she pressed.

The answer came to him as simply as breathing. "Because we have to stop the Hunters before they hurt anyone else."

"You're not doing it for revenge, you're not doing it because they almost killed you? Almost killed your parents and your friends? Because they've _already_ killed more of our friends, and an entire pack of innocent werewolves? You're doing it to keep everyone safe, even the people in town who think we're the monsters? Right?" She reached over and poked her finger into his chest, and not gently. _"That's_ Scott McCall."

"Lia… It's still going to be a fight."

"Yeah, but if you don't want _me_ to be a killer, and I don't want _you_ to be a killer, then…" She tapped his chest again, softer this time. "I don't know what we'll do. Not yet."

He didn't either.

"But I do know one thing."

"What?"

"You're going to be a vet," she said, with the utmost certainty. "After all this. You'll be a doctor. You won't have to kill. You'll get to save things." 

 _Vets put down animals_ , he wanted to tell her. Animals that were too sick, too afraid, too old, too wild, animals that hurt people. Animals like them. Animals like Gerard Argent. But her faith in him was so intoxicating that his frozen tundra of doubts began to melt, icy waters receding and receding until the soil became fertile enough to plant seeds of hope again. It was a wonder he ever made it this far without her believing in him.

Feeling inexplicably relieved, and with a renewed determination surging through him, Scott declared, "I'll try Deaton again. If we can stop the Anuk-Ite, we can stop the fear. That should be our priority. And in the meantime, we get ready, just in case, and we raise an army to protect everyone."

"I'm with you," agreed Malia. "We _are_ still pretty desperate though, but I've got a couple of ideas." She reached into her jacket pocket, and pulled out her phone. "Let's get moving," she said, but he'd already started the car. 

 _Not killing isn't running,_ Scott told himself. _And fighting doesn't have to mean killing. It shouldn't._  

And yet, when he swallowed, he swore he tasted blood, and it tasted like what was yet to come.

 

////

 

Midnight approached, and Scott would enter the new day with one new soldier for his army, and Peter Hale at that. It didn't dishearten him as much as it should've, for they knew now what the Anuk-Ite was looking for, knew Lydia could communicate with the dead hellhound Halwyn, and maybe, if they were lucky, they could still escape the war without any more bloodshed, without needing Peter Hale and his petty revenges as their best worst option. It was a nice thought, and he held onto it tightly as he watched the man who bit him a lifetime ago stroll out the door with his daughter, grousing about his overwhelming need for a shower. 

"I'll call the Sheriff," said Liam, pulling out his phone. "About the bodies."

Scott let him go with a nod, leaving him alone with Theo and three corpses shut in a freezer behind them. He stood a silent vigil there for a moment, for three more dead supernaturals he'd never met, whose names he didn't know, and Theo let him for a minute before speaking.

"He almost killed Nolan yesterday," he remarked, as if they were talking about the weather. "Liam, I mean. Still beating himself up over Brett and Lori. Tried to kill Gabe today, too, he was so pissed about Mason and everyone else. He didn't, obviously, but I thought it best I didn't tell him Gabe was lying to him. Gerard trained him pretty good, but not good enough." He tapped at his ear, twice, a heartbeat."But I figure it doesn't actually matter who shot up your house, not to you."

"It was the Anuk-Ite," said Scott, resolute despite the dull anger in his gut. _He shot my_ mom _._ "It's all the Anuk-Ite."

"Yeah. Sure."

"Do you feel it?" Scott turned to him, honestly curious. "The fear?"

"I've been to hell." Theo shrugged the words. "What's there to fear in Beacon Hills?"

"Losing the people we care about."

The other boy rubbed at his chest. "I don't think I have to worry about that."

"Because you don't care about anyone, or because you think we're not going to lose anyone else?"

"I wouldn't be _that_ optimistic…" Theo hooked a thumb over his shoulder to the freezer. "But I'm here, aren't I?"

Scott almost thanked him for that again, but said instead, "Stopping Liam from killing Gabe and Nolan was the right call."

"He stopped himself."

"You were there, weren't you?" Scott shot back.

Theo shrugged again. "He pulled me out of hell. I owe him one."

 _And you've repaid that more than once,_ thought Scott, but didn't push. "Still, he shouldn't have to live with that."

"Well, I _did_ offer to do it for him," said Theo, with no shame. "But then I figured it'd still feel the same to him. And to you." 

He was right, and Scott didn't know how long he could avoid that issue, not anymore. Not with Theo on his side, and not with Peter Hale. He clung to the destruction of the Anuk-Ite as the only solution, and parked that train of thought there to stay. It was past midnight by now, and they'd made it to a new day.

"I should probably get out of here," said Theo, adding sardonically, "before the Sheriff tries to pin those three on me."

"I wouldn't worry about that." said Liam, returning to the room with a grave look on his face. "The Sheriff got fired and Monroe has control of the department."

Theo glanced to Scott, something like the boy he was in his expression as he said, "We're not really the catching breaks type, are we?" 

Scott's exasperated sigh said it all: _Not really, no_. Another thing for tomorrow, another battle to fight.

 

////

 

The deputies had withdrawn from the hospital, but Parrish was on watch, and he wasn't alone. He nodded his head to them when they approached the entrance, and gestured to three other men patrolling the grounds. They were all tall and walked like they were soldiers, and in the moonlight Scott could make out the shape of pistols concealed in shoulder holsters. Parrish's gesture hadn't been a warning, however; the men weren't Hunters, but mercenaries, and that meant Argent had supplied them. Without a word, Liam slipped off into the night with Theo his shadow, to check the perimeter themselves and assess the new bodyguards, just in case. Scott watched them go, nodded back to Parrish, and made his way inside.

He wasn't surprised to find Chris himself in his mother's hospital room, half-shrouded in a shadow softened by the hospital lights and his minute smile. He stood at Melissa's bedside as she had once his, after the Wild Hunt had almost gotten to him months ago, and their hands were linked. The sight warmed Scott; his mom more than deserved someone who looked at her like she was the light at the end of a long, dark, tunnel, and Chris deserved the light too.

His mom perked her head up when she saw him. "There he is," she said, as weak as she was pale, but still beaming at him. 

"Hey, mom." To Chris, he nodded, and said, "Glad you came back."

Chris nodded in reply. "I can't stay long," he said apologetically. "I've got a lead on someone who might be able to help us out. My guys are paid up, they'll keep everyone safe."

"Thank you."

"Of course. I should probably get going, so… I'll leave you two alone." Gently, his free hand reached up and stroked a hair off of Melissa's wan cheek. "See you soon."

"You better," she murmured. "You still haven't called."

With a deep chuckle, Chris reluctantly pulled his hand from hers, and turned. His eyes encountered Scott's, and blinked away the same fear Scott had felt since the gunfire had stopped. A fear that looked like a girl they both lost a long time ago.

Moving by instinct, Scott embraced the older man, clapped his back once, and whispered, "She'd be so proud of you."

"You too," Chris choked out. "She'd be proud of you too."

He departed the room with each step purposeful and composed, the consummate professional once more, and Scott's mother beckoned him to the chair by her bedside. He sank into it gratefully, but kept the sigh to himself.

It didn't quite work. "You okay, kiddo?"

"Tired."

His mother snorted. "You're tired? _I'm_ tired. I got _shot_ , and the food here really sucks." She smiled to soften the blow. "How goes the fight?"

There was no other way to sum it up but, "Peter's going to help us."

"Ahh." The _"That bad, huh,"_ went unsaid. "And you? Are you okay?"

The words threatened to break the dam that had been leaking all day, but he forced himself to stay strong for her. She was being strong for him, had been for all his life, it seemed only right. It felt like growing up, the last tattered remnants of his adolescence lost, but he forced himself to nod, smile, and say again, "Just tired."

"Oh, Scott…" His mom placed her hand on his. "It's going to get worse before it gets better."

"But it's going to get better?" he asked, the thing he'd been daring to believe all this time.

"I should think so. Otherwise, what's the point of hoping? If we don't have hope…"

"We have nothing."

His mom smiled, exhausted from injury, worn down by life, aged in fear, but never more alive. "That's my boy."

Some time later, after his mom had fallen asleep, her words carried Scott out into the hallway, where Liam was waiting for him. He, restlessly pacing the floor, reported that Mason was being discharged in a couple of days, that Corey was with him, and that the hospital was safe for the night. Scott took it all in, then told him to go get some rest himself. 

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea… You should too, you kind of, uh, look like you need it."

"Yeah."

But he didn't leave. Agitation rolled off of his beta in waves, an unasked question he feared to ask, for the answer had already been written in history. Scott waited, until Liam could no longer, and said quietly, "Jiang and Tierney are dead too, aren't they?"

They had to have hope, or else there was nothing. But false hope could be a dangerous thing, beguiling one second, treacherous the next. There was no point in lying to him, no need to not trust that Liam could take this burden with all the rest, so Scott said, "Yeah. They're gone."

Liam nodded briskly, kept nodding like a puppet jerking on strings, absorbing the answer he'd expected but no more wanted to hear. He breathed in deeply, then out again, and while the agitation remained, the anger stabbing at his heart sounded like a dull blade.

Scott reached out and grasped his shoulder. "It's not your fault. _None_ of it's your fault. Not Brett and Lori, not Jiang and Tierney. The more we get caught on what we could've done, what we should've done, the less chance we have to move forward and honour the fact that we made it. We were too late, but next time, we don't have to be." 

Liam stared at his shoes, and said nothing for a long time. Eventually, he said, "… We tried, didn't we?" He sounded very young. "We did everything we could?"

 _We always do,_ thought Scott, and said, "Mason made it. My mom made it, Lydia, my dad. We all made it today. And tomorrow, we're going to do better."

"But I… I'm still losing control."

"No, no you're not," Scott said firmly. "I've seen you out of control, but even then, _especially_ then, you didn't let the anger win. And you haven't yet. They beat you up at school, and you didn't break. And Theo told me about Nolan and Gabe. You stopped yourself before he ever had to step in, right?"

"And if I can't next time?" he asked.

"You just will," said Scott simply. "You just will."

"Yeah…" Liam seemed to like the sound of that. "It's just… I'm tired. Of being angry all the time, being afraid…" He closed his eyes, and let out a frustrated breath. "And I've missed, like, _all_ of my classes, and god, I am really, _really_ , regretting taking Latin. You know that was all Monroe's idea? She let me think it was an _easy_ option. Shoulda known she was evil."

Scott chuckled, and squeezed his shoulder again. "I can't help you with Latin, sorry. But I'm here. And after all this is over, you'll have time to catch up. You'll have time for everything."

Liam seemed to like to the sound of that too. He nodded his head, and shrugged off Scott's hand. He spun on his heel to leave, then turned back. "… Hey Scott? I think we're going to win this."

"Yeah," Scott told him. "Me too." 

The beta's heart was calm as he left, murmuring the mantra, _"The sun, the moon, the truth…"_  to himself, and Scott felt indescribably proud of the man Liam Dunbar was going to become.

His last stop was Lydia's room. She who had been fighting with him the longest, who had saved him and Malia from the armoury, who had taken a bullet warning them all, who had been found wandering in a fugue state earlier that night, drawn to the dead Primal Pack and the Anuk-Ite's trail like a grim magnet to dread metals. He and Malia had delivered her to her mother to take back to the hospital after getting the call from Liam and Theo about the bodies, and he was beyond relieved to find her sitting up in her hospital bed. He was also mildly surprised her mom hadn't had her daughter restrained, but he kept that thought to himself.

"The nurse gave her a sedative," said Mrs Martin when she saw him at the doorway. "It should be kicking in any minute now."

From the irritated look on Lydia's face, the sedative had been administered far longer than a minute ago and wasn't working at all, but natural sleep was creeping into her glassy eyes, and hope for a restless night with it.

Mrs Martin moved to give them the room, but before she could leave, she said, "I almost didn't do it. The list, I almost didn't warn everyone on it. I was terrified, I didn't…" She tipped her head to her daughter, the haunted look in her eyes reminding him all too much of Chris's. "She believes in you." Her eyes turned flinty. "Don't let her down."

"He hasn't yet," rasped Lydia, before he could. "It's okay, Mom. I'll be okay."

Scott waited until Mrs Martin left the room before letting out the relieved sigh he'd been holding in. He reached up and massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers, and the motion seemed to amuse Lydia, for she chuckled. 

"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," she recited. "That's Shakespeare."

"I know."

"Yeah, but now you _know."_

He did at that. "Does that make me King of Beacon Hills?" he asked, drifting to her bedside. "Funny, I wouldn't've even expected getting crowned Prom King, let alone this. Y'know, if we'd actually gone to prom."

"Well, the Prom Committee got taken by the Wild Hunt," said Lydia airily. "Kind of ruined it for everyone."

"Maybe they did us a favour. After the Winter Ball, back in sophomore year…"

She grimaced. "Ugh, don't remind me." 

"Sorry." He was sorry for a lot of things.

The lighter mood evaporated, or perhaps revealed itself for the cloud hanging over them all along, and for a moment Lydia was very quiet. "You didn't call him, right?" she asked. "Tell me you didn't call him."

The plea in her voice felt like a claw squeezing his heart. "I didn't."

"He can't heal like you and Malia and Liam, and if he'd been at the house…"

"I know." He tried not to think about it. He tried not to think about how lucky she had gotten, and his mom, his dad, Mason. "I know. I didn't call. We promised we wouldn't."

With a relieved sigh of her own, Lydia leaned her head back on her pillow. "I almost did. You know, call him. Not just to pretend, or hear his voice, but… for real. I almost called him because I had that vision and I didn't understand it, and I was scared, and I needed him. We all need him. And seeing you and Malia at the armoury, how you almost lost her… When we got back to your place, I had the cellphone in my hand when…" Her eyes closed shut, and a second Scott thought she'd drifted off to sleep, but they opened again. "One of the bullets that almost went in me hit the phone. I don't need to be a harbinger of death to know that's probably a sign."

"I don't know." As much as he wanted to give her his phone, any phone, and let her call the one she loved, one they all loved, he didn't. No matter how much it hurt, it would hurt far worse if he did. His mother's words echoed through him, "It's going to get worse before it gets better."

"I don't need to be a harbinger of death to know that, either."

 _You're going to see the world_ , he'd told Malia. _You're going to be a vet,_ she'd told him. And now, he told Lydia, "You're going to win a Nobel Prize. After all this, one day, years from now. Probably only, like, one year, knowing you. But you'll win it. And we'll be there in the crowd, all of us. Me and Stiles in tuxes, Malia'll wear a dress. We'll annoy the some stuffy old math professors at an after party and embarrass the hell out of you, but it'll be fun. The prom we never had." 

The ghost of a smile graced Lydia's lips. She looked impossibly tired. "Fields Medal," she said gently. "I'm going to win the Fields Medal."

He smiled back. "And you will. King Scott decrees it so."

"King Scott…" Lydia's words slurred in her drowsiness; sleep was pulling her away. "And his fierce werecoyote queen Malia, always by his side… his most brave and stalwart knight Sir Liam… and me, the royal chancellor with the visions and who really, _really,_ doesn't get paid enough…"

"And Stiles?" Scott prompted.

She snorted. "Court jester."

"I'll have to tell him you said that."

"Go ahead. I can pull the 'I got shot' card. Instant sympathy. And foot massages."

Scott chuckled, and leaned down to press a kiss on her forehead. She winced when his weight brushed her stitches, but she didn't cry out, and didn't scream. There was no death in his moment, and nothing to fear.

"I really _don't_ pay you enough," he told her.

"It's okay," said Lydia, slipping into slumber, "I forgive you."

The way she said it, he almost heard, _Believing in you doesn't cost a thing._

 

////

 

Scott McCall had long made peace with the fact he wasn't running. Not from Beacon Hills, not from the fear, not from the war, not from anything. So, he decided, if they wanted him, they knew where they could find him. That night, he followed the beating drum of his heart, and returned to the ruin of his house.

Despite the abandoned police tape, the vacant neighbouring houses and the buzzing of nearby streetlamps, at first Scott thought he was looking at the Hale house, drowning in ashes and spent screams in the forest. Through the obliterated windows he could make out the bullet-ridden walls and furniture, see the layer of glass and bullets on carpet that almost looked black with bloodstains, and then movement, the shape of something familiar, something that belonged there. _Someone_. He heard glass crunch underfoot, and the beating of a heart he knew as well as his own, and followed it inside. In the darkness, he fumbled for the nearest light switch, flicked it once, twice, before realising the light was a casualty of the shooting, and that Malia probably already tried it when she entered earlier.

"Hey," she said, rising from where she was crouching on the hardwood. Most of the glass had been gathered in a pile to the side; her den instincts at work.

"Hey," he replied softly.

"I dropped off Peter at one of his safehouses," she explained. "Thought you might come back here and… I didn't think you should be alone."

He smiled. "I'm not now."

Silently, he trudged over to the couch, picked up the fallen lamp, and righted it. Unbroken, its light became the brightest thing in the night, until he turned to look at Malia. His gravity aligned with hers, and drew them closer, the anticipation of comfort from the cold, a return to the warmest of means. Earlier in the night they had felt it again, the will of the Anuk-Ite imposed upon them like a hurricane of dread, closing in like an inferno of fear, rushing over like a tsunami of terror, and hand in hand they had weathered the power of the storm. Hand in hand, they tasted victory upon their tongues, even as they smelled the dead Primals on their nostrils. It was why Scott allowed himself to hope. It was why he told Liam they would win, and Lydia they would all make it. _She_ was why. They all were, for their belief in him, for their loyalty and trust, the greatest pack any Alpha could ask for. Scarcely a gust against the storm, a speck of dust against a universe, but a legend in the making, already made, set in stone. Of course he wasn't alone. He hadn't ever been.

Amidst dried blood and broken glass, Scott and Malia wrapped themselves in the familiar blanket of their silence, and together on their knees, they picked up the pieces and made of a battlefield a home again. The glass was swept, piled, thrown out. The blood was scrubbed until their hands were pink and raw, healed, then raw again. There was no saving the carpet, but they could always replace it, and judicious flipping of couch cushions and strategic blanket placement covered most of the damage to the furniture. The walls still needed a new coat of plaster and paint, but none of the holes had bullets in them anymore, fished out with claws, discarded, forgotten. The empty window frames were covered up with cardboard, and by the time they were done, the first pink light of dawn was peeking through.

After, they stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter side by side, hips touching, a satisfying exhaustion settling in their bones. It seemed like they would keep the silence, until Malia muttered, "Too late."

He looked to her. "What?"

"I said… _Too late."_ Abruptly, she pushed herself off of the counter. "I found out why Peter's fighting for us."

"Why?"

The simple question seemed to vex her. She huffed, like it was on the tip of her tongue, an epiphany she'd been trying to put to words all night, but being Malia Tate, she instead opted for the direct approach. "Earlier, when I went to convince Peter to stop being a jackass and help, I made him put his claws in my head. Y'know, he was scared of the Wild Hunt and helped us fight them because of that so I thought that if he felt the Anuk-Ite, it'd motivate him to help us stop it, because that thing is scary and wrong and even Peter might be human enough to feel that, but it… it didn't work. Then it turned out it did." She swallowed, but did not hesitate. She never did; it was one of the things about her he admired most. "He saw something else. In my head. Something that brought him back."

"What was it?"

Her eyes locked with his, and he knew the answer before she said, "You. You being there for me. I think me being there for you too. Protecting you. Wanting you to survive more than anything else, _needing_ you to. And I think it happened when I was showing him the Anuk-Ite because lately, every time I've felt afraid, you've been there for me. You make it okay. It's not like an anchor, it's more like there's a big storm and the boat hasn't even _thought_ about moving, because it doesn't need to. Not with you there. I guess that scares me too, but in a different way, if you know what I mean. A better way."

Scott knew what she meant this time, every time. Without thought, he reached for hand just as she reached for his; their hands belonged to each other now.

She squeezed his grip. "Peter's going to fight for us because of that. And after I realised that, we were watching you get in your car and he tells me that you're going to get yourself killed and I shouldn't fall in love with a dead man. And then I told him… _Too late."_ She bit her bottom lip, failing magnificently to suppress a smile and the skip in her heartbeat. "And I do, y'know, and I have for a while even before all this because you're our friend and Alpha and we all, _y'know_ , you because you're there for us and deserve it, and it's just, it's… I know what _we_ got is new, and we're not even, like, _dating_ , but…"

"We're dating," blurted Scott. "We got burgers, I paid, you shared your fries. It was a date."

The smile broke on her face like the dawn. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah it was."

"And then," he continued, "and then we tried to blow up an armoury, and almost died. And tonight we went looking for a pack of primal werewolves to recruit for our army. That's… I mean, it's kinda weird, but that sounds at _least_ like three dates to me. Think I liked the first most, though."

"Same. No dead stuff. And there was food."

"Yeah."

"And we did spend, like, all summer together."

"You came over nearly every night," he agreed, and his cheeks were fit to burst from his grin. "We watched movies and ate candy and talked..."

"And before that, when the Wild Hunt was around," she said, as if realising. "We started saving each other."

"You know," said Scott, remembering his conversation with Lydia and realising something himself, "if we'd gone to prom... I would've asked you to go with me. We would've had fun." 

"Well you could ask me now," Malia said coyly, "But I think it's a little -"

"Too late," he finished. Suddenly, those words didn't scare him anymore. Nothing did.

That inescapable feeling of wanting to kiss her, to kiss her every chance he could take, swept through him once more, and that time, he could, and he did. His hands reached for her face, her arms wrapped around his neck, and together they stole from the night and welcomed the morning. A new home arose from the ashes, warm, quiet, alive, all at once the past, the present, the promise of a future. It's everything. _They're_ everything.

They were still at war, and it was going to get worse before it got better, but there were new words beating like a drum in his veins, words like _hope_ and _promise_ and _after._ And names too, names of those that were there, names of those that weren't, names he didn't know, names he had to protect. The names of his friends, his pack, his family. His name, her name, united as one,  _Scott and Malia._

When the kiss ended with a sweet sigh escaping them both, he pulled back to lean his forehead against hers. Their hands linked, and swayed between them as they ascended the stairs to his room, found his bed, lay down and curled up together, held on to each other, and dreamt of life after war.

 

////

 

_Uneasy lies the head, but easier, with another to lean on._

 

////

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! Bit overly sentimental sure, but this is Scott's POV we're talking about, and these kids all deserve the love. This fic began as an exercise of getting out some feelings about the pack after 6x15, because the 6b group and where they're at in their development and relationships with each other is destined to be underappreciated by the fandom in comparison to the "good ol' days" so I hope y'all didn't mind me overindulging. Also, I did try and get this done before last Sunday's episodes, but I ain't going to complain about getting beaten to the punch with a cleaning blood scene (especially with what happened next...), but yeah. Probably not going to fic 6x18/6x19, but I have more ideas for more Scott/Malia oneshots, including one that's a bit more humorous, and if things go well I might even have one up before the finale next week. And post finale fics too, rest assured, 'cause I got a good feeling there'll be some great stuff there.
> 
> Until then, thank you for reading, bookmarking, leaving a kudos or a comment, and for just appreciating this ship with me. And if me or the other Scott/Malia writers around here can inspire even one of you to want to write some yourself, then we've done our jobs, and we'll be reading for sure, because our tiny fandom needs all it can get, and, again, these two deserve the world. Thanks again, and hope to see you soon!


End file.
